It's all still in my head right now, ideas swimming around in free-form, but I am beginning to piece to together a connection between my grandparents' escape from Nazi occupation in 1939, the passing down of intergenerational trauma, and my own, reoccurring, descents into victimization and self-punishment.
My mom has a tendency to brush it off and change the subject when I start to talk about my link to my paternal grandparents' escape from Nazi Germany. Maybe she feels it's a part of my identity that has absolutely nothing to do with her, and maybe she doesn't like that. Perhaps it's just a topic that causes her eyes to glaze over, the way mine do when she begins another diatribe about the state of the healthcare system.
But I don't think I should dismiss this connection I feel, this need to explore this part of my family's history, and how it has contributed to who I am, both genetically and emotionally. I wonder, is progeny responsible for the indefinable guilt I have experienced since early childhood? Do two generations of repressed trauma and secrecy have a noticeable affect on the third generation?
I've always had this bizarre sense, way back in the depths of my consciousness (however, it is a conscious awareness), that when I am out on the streets, dating ex-cons and murderers, taking drugs, and allowing myself to be abused in various ways, that I am some kind of vigilante investigative reporter, tracking down stories for which most journalists would not risk their lives or reputations. The darkness of the world has always compelled me to make sense of it, to understand the inner workings of said darkness on an individual level. Through understanding a few specific people, I am gaining a generalized education in the development of dysfunction, addiction, and learned (as opposed to instinctual) fear.
I wish I knew my grandparents' story better than I do. I know only surface level information, little more than what is available through a Google search, with justifiable reason. My grandparents, Henry and Elly Glass, were miniature-sized couple who walked slow, were perpetually cold due to prescribed blood-thinning medication intended to counteract years of Elly's Viennese cooking. Despite decades in the U.S., their accents were as heavy as they were precious and they, in true European fashion, had complete outfits for every occasion. Neither owned a single garment made from denim, and they considered peanut butter to be proletariat. Charming as they wereCulturally, we have accepted Holocaust survivors' reluctance to unveil the atrocities they have witnessed. My Jewish heritage was not revealed to me until the summer before my junior year of college. Revealed to me so casually, in passing, and as if the information had always been common knowledge, I was stunned. It's funny to me now, looking back, how plainly it had been presented to me throughout my life. Yet, as casually as it was mentioned to me that August day of 2003, the evidence to back it up was the area of contention, the question that could not be asked directly of either of my grandparents. Also, as I had always been aware of this vague family history, I'd been equally aware that it was not appropriate to ask them about it.
So how do my holocaust survivor grandparents fit into the story of my own life, filled with dangerous characters, illegal substances, and willing footsteps towards complete submergence into anomie? My grandparents, from such a completely different time and place that even with what they had to endure during Hitler's regime, I believe they would've been devastated to learn of the places I had gone willingly, the chemicals I ingested, and the men I allowed to invade my aura.
When I think about what they went through, the adversity they had to overcome, how they had to leave their country, lose friends and family, suffer who knows what kinds of personal violations in order to secure their freedom, I am ashamed of myself. What a complete lack of respect I've had for my family's history.
My grandfather always wanted me to pursue the arts. In his opinion, I should have focused on fashion design. Well, I think that would've been ab-fab, but I was too impatient to learn how to sew. I was also too impatient to learn to play the guitar, deeming null my prospect of becoming the next rock god(dess). I considered other options in the arts, such as painting, but found as a teenager unwilling to get a full-time job for any longer than six months, the cost of materials was a major deterrent. Photography offered even more absurd financial woes.It wasn't that I chose writing as a career path because of it's low overhead, I just got lucky. Writing requires no accompaniment, or special ability other than typing (but even that I postponed until my mid-twenties, opting rather for spiral bound notebook and decent quality pen).
Am I reaching here? Am I wanting to make something out of nothing because of the identity it might provide me? Probably. But I won't know what I'm searching for unless I travel down a few dead ends along the way. Too bad life doesn't have a GPS system. I guess some questions have to be important enough to be worth searching for answers, and getting hopelessly lost along the way.
It's so weird how some people never change. They have some bad childhood and just stay stuck in the past forever. They never get over the bad shit that happened to them as children so they keep doing self-sabotaging, self-defeating behaviors over and over again. Every once in a while, I do a web search for my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19, Evil. As you can imagine, someone named Evil might have some issues. He was a short, tan, blue-eyed white guy who affiliated with Mexican gang members. He had all the Mexican gang tattoos, like the comedy/tragedy masks, girls with big boobs and clown faces, the teardrop tattoo under the corner of his eye (which apparently is only given in prison for murdering someone), and "Evil One" in Olde English tattooed across his swollen junkie stomach. He was addicted to meth and used to shoot it up into his dick because he had a good vein there. He was a meth cook (at least that's what he claimed, although even with a meth lab, I never saw him produce anything usable). Our relationship was all about drugs, sex, and fighting. We would fight, fuck, and get high, and that was all we did. Our relationship was chaotic and dangerous and he was one of the most abusive, frightening people I have ever been with. He would hold me in places against my will and threaten to kill me, he would force me to spend money on my credit card to get him motel rooms, he once gave my car keys to a mentally retarded meth addict who called himself "God" (the guy was seriously mentally retarded - the state gave him money and an apartment because he was too stupid to work). He cheated on me with God's girlfriend, a heroin whore, some other prostitute named Freedom who I never met, and I'm sure countless others. He kidnapped me, he choked me, hit my head against walls, and punched me in the face so hard that I had two black eyes, a fat lip, a bloody nose, and a concussion that sent me to the ER. We were together for nine months, although I left him several times during that nine months. The day I finally left for good was the day he punched me in the face. I was on the phone with my mom, telling her I wanted to leave, and he cut the fucking phone cord! Then I tried to run out the sliding glass door and he grabbed me, so I dug my long fingernails into his sides. That's when he beat me up. I moved into a domestic violence shelter for a couple months and met a girl there who I became fast friends with named JM. I had been there only a few hours, and she arrived a little later on the same day. She and I and several other girls were sitting out at the smoking table and the first thing she said was, "So, who else got dragged through the front yard this weekend?" It was so fucked up that I had to laugh, and from that moment forward, she and I were inseparable, just cracking each other up all day, every day. Unfortunately, one day she was on the phone with her abuser (the father of their two children) and the conversation was really upsetting. That night she got drunk and started hopping from picnic table to picnic table, telling one of the female counselors that she had a crush on her. The next day she got kicked out. I left a few days later because it just wasn't the same without her. I moved in with JM, her abuser, and their two young children, a boy, 4, and a girl, just barely 2 years old. That's a whole other story, though, and I'm not trying to write my memoir right this second. My point is Evil, and how some people never change. See, when Evil was a child, his father sexually abused him in the most horrific ways. He forced him to peform oral sex, and raped him repeatedly, I think for several years. His uncle's did, too. His mom married this scumbag when she was only 15 years old, and I'm sure she came from a fucked up family as well. So she knew that this stuff was going on and did nothing about it. In my opinion, little is worse than that. No one I know has ever told me such horrific stories of childhood abuse. Evil's was the worst story I ever heard and probably ever will hear (because I don't hang with people like that anymore). So he grew up, became a male stripper, and got addicted to meth, went to prison, and joined a Mexican gang. When I met him, he was 31 years old. It's been over ten years since I left that relationship (thank god), and I have since quit doing drugs, quit hanging out on the streets with dope fiends and whores, quit being an irresponsible loser, fucking whoever, snorting and smoking whatever, and generally not giving a fuck about myself. Granted, no one raped me as a child, no one (as far as I remember) ever molested me, so I can't say that I know what's that feels like because I don't. But what I do know is, I had traumatic shit happen to me when I was young, and before I knew any better, I coped with it by hurting myself, doing things to numb the pain of a fucked up childhood. But at some point, I feel like you really have to stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on. Drugs are actually quite lame, and life is far more of a high. Prison, from what I've heard, is not a good time, and being homeless blows for sure. At some point, you have to realize that you're continuing to make life such far past the point that it needs to suck. As soon as you're able to start making your own decisions for your life, as soon as you're old enough to make your own money and get your own place to live and food to eat, you have the option to move on. I didn't move on right away. It took me several more years of punishing myself with bad relationships and chemicals before I finally got it that I don't have to, and don't want to, live that way. But some people just go on like that 'til their early death. Evil is 42, and just booked again in July of this year for a felony. I saw his mugshot (which I could create a link to, but I won't because I'm too embarrassed) and he has the meth lesions all over his face and neck, he's all sucked up, his eyes are shut, and he's just fucked! 42 years old and still up to the same old tricks, never to be happy, never to move on, stuck in the pain forever. I wonder if he even knows he has a choice? Maybe he doesn't. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about at all. Maybe being raped by your dad really is something that you can never get over. Maybe karma is a real thing, and in his past life he was Hitler, or some other horrible dictator, and his current life is his punishment for his last life. I don't know. I just feel like it's such a waste of a life, a waste of space on the planet to live an entire life in misery. I think he's also turned into a pedophile, but like I said, there's little information on the crimes committed, since he's only been booked and not charged. But I know he's attracted to young children...there were little signs here and there that I ignored at the time, but I just know. God, that gives me the shivers just thinking about it. Anyway, I have this uncanny ability to forgive, and maybe that's why I'm able to move on and so many addicts aren't. But I forgive him for what he did to me, and I forgive everyone else, too. Life is too short to stay mad. Staying mad doesn't do anything to the people I'm mad at, it only does something to me, and that is, make my life suck. And since I forgive him, I hope he finds some peace. I hope everyone finds peace. I believe everyone deserves it.
Well I haven't written for the last couple days because I feel like I have nothing to say. I am close to my period and not sleeping well, and of course I am hungrier than usual. Today I ate an ice cream cone with two scoops of ice cream and it was fantastic. I caught up with pretty much my only friend - PH, my old AA sponsor. She's recently separated from her husband has moved into a condo in Juanita, or is in the process of moving. I offered to help her but she said she might just invite me over as a guest, not to help her move. I told her that I'm not sober anymore and of course, she didn't judge me or try to change me, which is why we've always had such a good relationship. She just offered an ear if I ever need to talk to someone or if I am concerned about it and need someone to talk to. It's a pretty wierd thing, to go from having almost four years clean to drinking wine and smoking weed again. I can't say that I feel great about it, but I don't feel like shit either. So far it has had little to no impact on my life, and I think that's about as much space as those things should ever take up in a person's life. Before I got sober and went to AA, I let it run my life. All my decisions were based on drugs and alcohol and keeping my addiction going but under cover. The men I chose to date were always more fucked up than me, my friends were all more fucked up than me, my jobs always sucked so they were easy to just quit without warning and still feel justified in doing so. AA taught me how to be a decent human being, a productive member of society, how to care for someone other than myself without being totally codependent. It also taught me not to put all my eggs in one basket, meaning that, nothing in life can be the answer to all your problems, be it religion, drugs, a job, a person, or AA. For a while there, I let AA be the guiding force in my life, so when that stopped working, I felt like I'd lost a limb. It was extremely painful to be so let down by people I thought so highly of, especially when I needed them so desperately. It wasn't just the people that I needed - I needed structure, guidance, just help in general because I was sad and lost. I prayed more and it didn't help. I tried to get a new sponsor and one girl turned me down, another girl stood me up twice. I tried to make friends with people and they ended up rejecting me. I thought so much of the people in AA, I was brainwashed to believe they were the epitome of reformed derelicts, because I thought I was, too. I went from being a lying, stealing, cheating, selfish bitch, to volunteering every week rain or shine, not talking badly about anyone, helping anyone I could, praying every night, and following through on all my promises and commitments. Not to mention, I was as honest as I could be, wouldn't dream of cheating or stealing. I thought everyone else was as "good" as me. But I wasn't good, I was perfect, and perfect is 1) not sustainable and 2) impossible for anyone else to live up to. So I was just setting myself and everyone I encountered up to fail. And they did. And then I quit AA. But after I let go of AA, my life did start to improve. I stopped praying (something I always felt awkward doing anyway) and went back to being an agnostic with leanings toward karma and past lives. I continued to work out and develop my relationship with HAM. I had some bad habits, too, like the binge eating and the talking to ALL every once in a while, even though I had no intention of ever going back to him (which I made clear whenever I talked to him). But I don't know, all this shit went down with ALL and HAM, and me, and what I want out of life and a relationship, plus the antidepressants and the Ambien, the panic attacks and depression. All this shit just snowballed and reached a crescendo and then dissolved into nothingness and everything was peaceful and the way I always wanted it to be, and then we got high. I don't know if it was because we were trying to cover up some emotional pain, which is what they want you to believe in AA (and it definitely has validity), or if I have just changed. I certainly don't feel like the person I once was before I began AA, before I was sober. I have a great job with a super cool boss and a lot of responsibilty. I am totally trusted and never micromanaged, and I love it. It's perfect for me. And I'm in a relationship with a wonderful guy who always treats me with respect and supports my goals, and vice versa. He's smart and in college and we play scrabble together. I also go play scrabble with my grandma every week, which I love to do, but it's also kind of like volunteering (and I can't think of a better way to volunteer my time than to hang out with my sweet little grandma). My life is drama free and on track. I'm starting the memoir writing course at UW in October, last week I worked out six days in a row, I've been cooking a lot of really fabulous meals, and I like to have a glass of wine or a few hits off the weed pipe in the evening after all of my responsibilties are handled. And I never get drunk, don't even wanna get drunk. I like to sip one glass of excellent red wine over the period of a few hours, and that's all I desire. I don't know if I will switch over from this to being unmanageable and powerless, or if I will remain a casual, light enjoyer of these substances. Is it worth it? Another question I don't know the answer to just yet. Sometimes I think I must be out of my mind to drink or smoke anything, and other times I think, there's just nothing wrong with this, millions of people do the same thing as me with no guilt and no negative consequences. But we live in a guilt-driven society and I am product of it, AA being even more guilt-driven than regular society. But the fact is, I got sober because of ALL, and I'm thankful to him for shifting my life that way, but maybe my problem was more related to childhood pain that has since been worked through. I don't feel resentful or angry toward either of my parents or the other parental figures from my past. I am an adult now, I am responsible, and in a healthy relationship, working on my professional goals at work and with writing on my own time. Life is good, and playing scrabble stoned is a total blast. If shit gets out of hand, hopefully I'll have the the awareness that it's out of hand, and the respect for myself to cut it out.
Today was good. I worked an extra hour than usual and I got my paycheck. I got my nails done for a pretty good price and I got dark green french tips. They look beautiful. But Thursday sucked. I've always wanted to be a nude model. Not a pornographic-style nude, but nude art - painting or photography, it's just something I've always wanted to do and do before I get too old. So I found a person on line who's local and his photographs are very artistic and beautiful. I emailed him about modeling and he said I could send some clothed photos of myself so he can see if he's interested. I mentioned all of this to HAM and he did what he always does when he's mad; nothing. He just turns silent and then I have to keep bugging him until he finally tells me what his problem is. This time, it was that he felt like I was doing something behind his back. Then he said that all those male photographers just want to sleep with their subjects. He said, "You want some dude to take nude pictures of you?" as if I was going to some back alley motel so some dude with a camera could snap dirty pictures of me and sell them on a porn website. So we started fighting and the truth came out. It had little to do with nude modeling, and everything to do with the whole thing that recently happened with ALL. He hasn't said much about it since it happened, but it finally came out on thursday that he thinks about it frequently and it disgusts him and he doesn't know if he will ever forgive me. I tried to explain that my wanting to leave him for my abusive ex-fiance had much more to do with medication that with my heart's desire. When I left ALL in February 2010, I knew I would NEVER be with him again. I wasn't attracted to him anymore and had no desire to try to fix his broken ass ever again. But then, a year later, I'm dealing with the worst insomnia of my life, as well as an awful binge-eating disorder. So first, I try every natural sleeping rememdy known to man and none of them work. Then I try Ambien, and it's like a miracle drug. The problem is, I don't actually have a prescription for it, I'm taking my Dad's Ambien (which he knew about - I wasn't stealing it from him). So I go to my doc and try to get a script for it since it's the only thing that works, and the doc tried about a zillion other sleep aids but refuses to give me Ambien. So I continue taking my Dad's supply, and start to become depressed. The binge eating gets worse, I'm having freaky nightmare almost every night, and still can only sleep for four hours at a time. So I get on anti-depressants and my initial reaction to them is anxiety, panic attacks, and worsening depression...but they stop the binge-eating, so I stick it out. Meanwhile, my ex gets a hold of me after we hadn't spoken in a long time, and he's telling me he loves me and would do anything for me, and I'm desperately trying to get HAM to say this to me. I want to know where the relationship is going and he keeps saying, "I can't predict the future." No "I love you and want to be with you forever," just, "I can't predict the future." So I get more wrapped up in ALL telling me what I want to hear, and even though I know I don't want to be with ALL, I feel attached to him because I want to hear, "I love you" from someone since I'm depressed, anxious, and crying nonstop every day. Then ALL disappears. His phone is disconnected, his Facebook page is deleted - he's just gone. And then I feel so alone, and HAM doesn't love me, and doesn't want to be with me, or isn't sure, and I start feeling desperate to get this attention from someone, so a month later when ALL reappears and says he still loves me and wants to be with me, I actually consider it. Then I confess all of this to HAM, he talks me out of going back to ALL, tells me he loves me and wants to marry me and have babies with me (one day) and then I feel hurt. I feel like, "Why the fuck didn't you tell me any of this before?" And I'd spent so much time talking myself out of loving him or imagining a future with him, that it became difficult for me to just change my mind. But I finally did change my mind. I adjusted to the antidepressants and got off Ambien FOREVER (thank god), but in the process, I hurt ALL, I hurt HAM, and I hurt myself. HAM and I fell madly in love, I cut ALL completely out of the picture, and everything was bliss and fun and love until thursday, when I found out that it wasn't all bliss and fun and love. There is still pain and uncertainty for HAM, and I don't blame him at all. So I spent the whole day crying and feeling like shit about what I terrible person I have been. But, to my credit, I have spent every day since HAM and I committed to eachother trying to be the best girlffriend I can be. I cook, I clean, I wear lingerie, I got my nails done with french tips (his favorite), I give him rides and pick him up whenever I can, I brought him lunch today, we have sex pretty much daily, and I spend as much time with him as I can. But apparently, all of that doesn't compare to being betrayed. And some of the things I said to him were so hurtful and I'm so embarrassed, but I swear it was the Ambien making me crazy! But even if it was the Ambien, the words were still hurtful, my actions were still hurtful, and I can't take any of it back. It happened and now I have to live with the consequences, which could end up meaning that I lose the man I love and hope to be with forever. I hope he decides to forgive me and forget that part of our past, but if he doesn't, I have to somehow accept that and move on. God, I'm such a douchebag sometimes. In honor of my douchbaggedness, here is one of my favorite songs:
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